Yesterday, Rekha asked me to buy four toothbrushes – one for every member of the family. If you think it is an easy task, you need to continue reading.
I had two options – open the Zepto app, search for ‘toothbrush,’ buy it and then wait for the 10-minute delivery or visit the supermarket.
If you are a married man, you are probably already aware that no errand given by your wife is simple…so to do a proper job and impress her, I decided to go to the nearby supermarket.
No article of mine is complete without a bit of nostalgia, so let’s travel back to 1986…Ambattur in Chennai.
Back then, I was a 11-year-old boy, and we used Vicco Vajradanti to clean our teeth. I am not using the word ‘brush’ because there was no ‘brush.’ My mother dropped a pinch of ‘the powder’ on my left palm, and I would then take some of it on the tip of the index finger of my right hand, and clean my teeth. It worked well.
And since I had protruding teeth, I was asked to put pressure on my front teeth while brushing – I am not sure that helped. Braces would have, but like I have said before we were poor and when it came to food on the table or better teeth, we choose the former.
I thought the whole world used Vicco Vajradanti, till I went to Getchi’s house. She was the 15-year-old daughter of our landlord – we had rented his first-floor house, while they lived on the ground floor.
They had a beautifully illustrated book on Bible stories which I loved to flip through. During one such session, Getchi’s mother made plantain bhajji (‘fritters’ for those who love the Queen) and chutney, and asked me to wash my hands before she served them.
What I saw inside changed my life.
After washing my hands, I came out and asked Getchi, “What are those colourful sticks in your bathroom?”
“Ah…them…they are toothbrushes.” She dismissed my curiosity.
“What do you do with them?” I continued.
“We brush our teeth, dumbo!” She dismissed me yet again.
“Wow…so you don’t use Vicco Vajradanti?” I had started feeling bad now.
“Nah…we used to till two years back.”
I was determined to get to the root of it. And since she knew I wasn’t going to relent, she explained how the system worked.
Apparently, there was something sticky called ‘Colgate’. You had to squeeze it and put it on your toothbrush, and then put it inside your mouth.
I said, “Eww!”
She said, “I know. It is bit of an acquired taste because of all the foam that comes out.
“What? Yuck!”
I almost vomited inside my mouth, but held myself together long enough to ask: “What do you do then?”
“They are just many small bubbles…you can swallow them if you like.” She said.
“Does it even taste good?” I wasn’t sure what this while hula-bulla was all about.
“Yes…but my parents ask me to spit,” she said straightening her frock.
Two days later I would find out why they had ten toothbrushes in their bathroom, when they were only four in the family.
She said that every 2 months, her dad would buy a new toothbrush and add it to the container. And whoever in her family brushed first would use the new toothbrush. And the next person would use the one that was relatively new…and was not wet. Like this, from this pool of ten toothbrushes, their family members could pick any one and brush their teeth.
Back then I remember thinking, “Wow…what a cultured, civilized family.” And here we are still brushing our teeth with Vicco Vajradanti!
A few years after this incident, we also started buying toothbrushes. I am not sure which was my first – Colgate or Oral-B. But back then, there were only two types of toothbrushes – the new one and the old one.
The new toothbrush was for your teeth. The old toothbrush was for cleaning bathroom corners, school shoes, mixer-grinder blades, etc.
Back then, we used a toothbrush for least 4-6 months – till its bristles bent backwards as if they were doing Chakrasana. After serving six months in the mouth, it was transferred to bathroom maintenance.
In middle-class homes like mine, no toothbrush retired fully.
—X—-X—-
Today, buying a toothbrush is not shopping. I know because it was almost as if I were looking for a bride.
I reached the supermarket and walked confidently towards the oral-care section. That confidence lasted ten seconds…that’s less than the time my 12-year-old son spends brushing his teeth. Now, that’s something!
In front of me were at least 69 varieties of toothbrushes from brands such as Colgate, Oral-B, Pepsodent, Close-up, Sensodyne, Patanjali, Clove, etc.
Soft. Medium. Hard. Ultra soft. Super soft. Sensitive. Gentle Sensitive. Gum care for gums yet to start bleeding. Gum care for bleeding gums. Deep clean. Zig-zag. Charcoal. Slim Soft Charcoal. Whitening. 360-degree clean. Tongue cleaner. Cavity Defence. Crisscross bristles. Angular bristles. Japanese bristles. Plaque Removal. Flexible neck. Dentist recommended. Scientifically designed. German technology. Swiss precision.
Even though, while picking up my life partner, I didn’t have 69 girls to choose from, I stood there staring at the toothbrushes like I was choosing a life partner. Each one of them was calling out to me – something the girls never did.
This is the problem with modern life. Back in my time, we had fewer choices and more peace.
I would walk up to the store and ask, “Uncle, can you give me a toothbrush?”
He would stop scratching his sweaty armpits, wipe his hand on his sleeveless baniyaan, and pick up whatever toothbrush he had and pass it on to me saying, “Here you go, son…that will be Rs 2.”
Once I hand him the Rs 5 note my mother had given me, he would give me Rs 3 back…out of which I will pocket 50 paise as my commission – that’s all.
Haven’t we all, at some point or the other, taken out our pound of flesh from every market visit?
I only want to brush my teeth. But these companies want me to discover myself. One brush said: “For complete oral confidence.”
I am 50 years old and I play badminton with a knee brace. I don’t even have knee confidence…what am I going to do with oral confidence? Participate in a Spelling Bee contest?
Then I saw one toothbrush with charcoal bristles. Now, I don’t know whose idea it was to tell human beings, “Your teeth are yellow, so brush them with something black.” But I am sure whoever came up with the idea got promoted.
I picked up a pack of four toothbrushes…they were in just the colours men understand – blue, green, pink, and purple.
In a normal house, this should be enough, but as you are already aware, ours is not a normal household.
So I called Rekha, which, as you know, I would repent the very next minute. It’s a classic mistake most men make.
When confused, we call our wives thinking they will simplify the situation. They don’t…instead, they increase the confusion.
“Which one should I buy for you?” I asked.
“I need the soft ones…but not too soft.”
This is the problem. Women can create categories inside categories.
Soft, but not too soft. Spicy, but not too spicy. Loose, but not too loose.
We men are simple. We have only two categories…Okay and Not Okay.
“What about the kids?” I asked.
“Rhea likes slim handles. Ritwik likes the one with grip.”
“What grip?”
“Rubber grip.”
“Why does a 12-year-old boy need grip to brush his teeth? Is he brushing or rock climbing?”
“Don’t argue. Send me photos.”
So there I was, a 50-year-old entrepreneur managing a team of 10 youngsters in his travel startup, standing in the oral-care aisle, taking photos of toothbrushes and sending them to his wife on WhatsApp.
Before marriage, I remember sending romantic messages. After marriage, all my memories are of sending photos of beetroots, drumsticks, bananas (to ask her by when they may ripen), Tupperware lunch boxes, coriander bunches, etc for approval.
I sent her the first photo.
She replied: “No.”
Second photo.
“No.”
Third photo.
“Too hard.”
This went on till I had sent her seven photos. At that point, I wanted to ask her, “Rekha, should I just bring the dentist home instead?”
But you have been reading me for long, and know that I am a cockroach of marriages. I have survived marriage because I know when to turn upside down and play dead.
As I looked confused, a salesman of the Vibha store (who names a store after a woman!!) came and asked, “Sir, can I help you?”
I wanted to hug him.
“Yes. I need four toothbrushes.”
“For what purpose, sir?”
This question hurt me. What else does one do with a toothbrush?
I wanted to say, “One is for applying dosa batter on the tawa, one is for combing my moustache, and two are for brushing teeth.”
But being the gentleman that I am…also because this salesman was at least a foot taller than me…I said, “For family.”
“Soft, medium, hard?”
“Soft.”
“Normal soft or sensitive soft?”
I looked at him and smiled. He also smiled because, at that moment, we connected. At that moment, we both knew that humans had gone too far in the name of convenience.
“What do you recommend?” I asked.
“Sir, this one is dentist recommended.”
“Which dentist?” I asked.
He smiled yet again. I touched him on his shoulder and smiled back. We connected for a second time within 60 seconds because both of us knew that there was no dentist.
I told the sales man, “Chill…I got it,” and picked up the four-brush pack. I decided to handle Rekha, once I reach home. By handling, I mean, I would apologize… that’s easier than spending more time looking for the brushes.
As I walked towards the billing counter, I felt peaceful.
Some men feel good after climbing Mount Everest, or trekking Kilimanjaro, or jumping down Niagara Falls. But not me. I am happy even surviving the oral-care aisle.
At the billing counter, the lady scanned the pack and said, “Sir, there is an offer. If you buy one more pack, you get 20% off.”
This is how supermarkets trap middle-class people. We go to buy what we need, but come back with what was on offer.
For a second, I thought about it. What will Rekha say when I walk in with eight toothbrushes?
Will she say, “Mugambo khush hua?” Or will she say, “Ab yeh goli khaa!”
In every Indian man, there is a small wholesale businessman hiding. So I bought two packs.
When I came home, Rekha was in the kitchen.
I walked in proudly and handed over the toothbrushes and told her about the offer. I thought she would appreciate me for saving the family’s money, but she just kept the brushes in the bathroom and went about her work. She didn’t see them.
This is another thing about marriage. Your wife decides what’s important and when it is important. Apparently now these toothbrushes weren’t as critical as they were when I was buying them and seven images were exchanged on WhatsApp.
I wanted to be angry at her, but dare I show her my emotions.
So I quietly went to the washroom and decided to take my revenge. She loves blue color…and she was definitely going to select that toothbrush. What if I select that first? That could be my revenge. Besides blue is a colour that says, “I am a man who went through a lot today.”
It was 12 noon, and I had already brushed my teeth once before having breakfast, but I brushed again. After taking my revenge, I peeped into the kitchen….she continued to slog in the kitchen not knowing that in the battle of the toothbrushes she had lost to the master strategist.
“Should I tell her that I won?” I silently wondered.
But then better sense prevailed because some victories are best celebrated alone. Especially when your wife is the reason you even have a family toothbrush to fight over.